Monday, 9 June 2008

On Thursday night, feeling awfully sorry for myself, I typed the words ‘PABLO – BELOVED BLACK CAT – CASH REWARD OFFERED FOR HIS SAFE RETURN’ into a blank Word document. I added my phone number and a photograph of Pablo. Then I pressed ctrl and P, keyed in 20 copies and pressed ‘print’. As I picked up the first sheet to examine it, my mobile phone began to squeal.

Timing.

It was Ron, next door neighbour in Herne Hill, owner of three discoloured teeth and one fabulously untended garden which was until recently Pablo’s favourite stomping ground and miniature jungle kingdom. I’d already talked to him about Pablo going missing post-move. He had kindly checked his garden and promised to keep his eyes peeled. So when I heard his voice, I was optimistic.

Ron explained that he was with a young man called Tony. Tony had been going door to door in the area asking if anyone owned a black cat. He’d eventually been pointed towards Ron’s building. When Ron said yes, his ex-neighbour was missing a black cat, Tony burst into tears.

‘He just ran straight out in front of my car,’ Tony explained. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

Tony was a cat person. He felt terrible. I felt bad for him. But I felt sick for Pablo.

I drove back to my old house. I shook Tony’s hand. There was nothing he could do.

‘It’s OK,’ I told him. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘I’ve got four cats,’ he said. ‘I know how it is. I’m so, so sorry.’

Tony showed me to his car. He’d placed Pablo in the boot. His car was a Skoda.

A fucking Skoda.

Pablo deserved better than that.

I was surprised by how light he seemed. At first I thought maybe he was lighter because the life had leaked out of his body; because the weight of his soul had departed. Then I realised he’d probably lost a bit of weight in the few days he was missing, roaming around Herne Hill wondering where his life had gone. A shock ran through me. Pity and anger and shame. I tried not to blame myself. I’m still trying not to blame myself. But I do blame myself. At least partially.

I’d never held a dead body before. I touched my mother’s face before they put her in the ground but I didn’t feel much.

I loved Pablo much more than I loved my mother. Probably because Pablo showed me much more love than my mother ever did. It was easy to love Pablo. It was impossible to love my mother. She made it impossible.

His body was still warm.

It had been a clean hit, thank God. He ran into the front wheel with a thud. None of his insides were outside - I don’t think I would’ve been able to face that – but there was blood on his face, already dried. I couldn’t tell where it had come from exactly. I closed his eyes, the way they do in films, with soldiers.

I wrapped him in his favourite blanket and placed him on the passenger seat of my car.

Stalled at the traffic lights near Dulwich Park, I looked down at the blanket and let out a low groan.

I missed Sally.

....

A couple of weeks ago, Sally and I ended up having quite a heated argument about her taking photos of me. ‘I really thought you’d be into it,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m not,’ I replied. ‘I’m really not.’

‘Well, why not?’ she wanted to know, and it pissed me off that she seemed to feel some sense of entitlement. Like I was some art project she had paid for with her body.

‘Because you make me feel like a freak show,’ I said.

‘But I think you’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘In your own way,’ she added.

I made a face. My face said, ‘Thanks for that. You certainly know how to make a person feel like shit.’ Then my mouth said it.

‘But you don’t understand,’ she said, still digging a dirty great hole for our relationship. ‘For me you have a kind of anti-beauty that’s very attractive.’

‘Jesus, Sally. There’s no difference between that and morbid fascination. I am not an art project! I am a human being!’ I smiled but I was pissed off. ‘Seriously. You really do make me feel like a freak show.’

‘Well, you are a bit of a freak show,’ she said. ‘And that’s part of the attraction.’

I didn’t know how to react to this. I felt like Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise when she says, ‘Damn, Jimmy. What did you do, take some kinda pill that makes you say all the right stuff?’ Only in reverse. I just shook my head.

After which, things became rather strained between us, and as if by mutual, albeit tacit agreement, we began to see a little less of each other. Then we met up for a late dinner on Wednesday night, then back to mine. Everything seemed great. We laughed a lot and touched a lot and everything seemed easy again.

It’s amazing how quickly you can start feeling really optimistic again, no matter how wrong things might be underneath. If indeed they are wrong underneath. You never really know.

Or do you? Maybe you do. I don't.

At 4am I opened my eyes and Sally was sitting cross-legged, wide awake in the middle of my bed, her body twisted away from me. She had a little white vest on. She looked like a dream. My bedside lamp was on, blinding me. I squinted, shaded my eyes. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. She turned off the light, lay down and pulled the sheet over her body. She said she was fine. Told me to go back to sleep.

I didn’t believe her. ‘What’s up?’ I said.

‘I had a bad dream,’ she said.

‘Poor baby,’ I said, snuggling up to her and experiencing a wave of tenderness. There’s a song by Counting Crows with the line, ‘And every tine she sneezes, I believe it’s love’. It was that kind of moment. Like she’d sneezed all over me. She turned her body away from mine and I positioned myself behind her. ‘What was it about?’ I asked. And just as I did, something fell from the bed to the floor. I jumped. Sally didn’t move, but her not moving was so precise, so deliberate, that it had more impact than if she’d jumped to her feet. ‘What was that?’ I said. I reached across Sally, turned on the light, angled it away from my face and sat up.

Sally continued not to move. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just my camera.’

I looked at her. She continued to face away from me but I sensed her eyes were open, waiting.

‘Were you taking pictures of me?’ I asked.

She turned to face me, looking furtive, guilty. Or not. I don’t know.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘God, you’re paranoid.’

‘Sally. Why were you sitting up in the middle of the night with your camera and a light shining onto my face?’

‘I told you, I had a bad dream. I couldn’t sleep.’

I shook my head. I did a lot of head-shaking with Sally.

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘I was awake and I was looking through photos on my camera.’ I stared at her. She stared back. ‘You’re being weird,’ she said. My mouth fell open.

‘Me?!’ I was aghast. ‘Let me see the camera then.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘You’ve showed me photos on your camera before. Show me again.’

‘So you don’t trust me?’

‘Sally. You look guilty. You look like you’re lying to me. And you must admit, it looks pretty suspicious.’

And with that, she got out of bed, pulled on her clothes, picked up her camera and left.

To my shame, I did a little pleading. ‘Please don’t go, Sally’ I said, and I sounded pathetic. I followed her downstairs, wanting to stop her, physically. I tugged at her elbow. She reacted like I’d stabbed at her with a cattle prod and glowered at me. I felt guilty.

She said she wasn’t going to stay where she wasn’t trusted. I said I did trust her. Honest.

She left.

When the front door closed, I came back to my bedroom and picked up my watch from the bedside table. It was a quarter to four. How was she going to get home? I got back into bed.

I picked up my phone. I put it down.

Then I picked it up again and started texting.

Then I shook my head, cancelled the message and threw my phone across the room.

I turned off the light.

I thought how she often flicked through the images on her camera and realised that her explanation was entirely plausible. Why the fuck would she want to take photographs of me anyway? She was right. I was entirely paranoid.

my old cat died five years ago. can it be that long? it feels like less. I got new kittens right away. i love them tremendously. but i still grieve for the old one, and his presence has never left the house.

people make all sorts of comments about cats. that they are so independent. that they are the center of their universe. but when you need them, they know it.

Having lost my golden retriever, whom I loved more than anything on this planet, you have my deepest sympathy for Pablo. The loss of a pet is equally as painful as any other loss; I'm crying for you. I also hope the Sally thing resolves well for you.

I started reading your journal, blog, whatever you like to call it, a few weeks ago. As I read this last entry, my beloved cat that has moved across the country with me 5 times in the past 14 years is lying on the floor, a feeding tube surgically implanted in her neck in a last-ditch effort to cure the disease that is ravaging her. As you might guess... I'm crying. I'm going to go lie on the floor with her.

sorry for your loss, our pets become family and as you said, more than family sometimes. heartwrenching.

as far as the other. dunno, as a woman ... if I hadn't taken a photo I'd probably have shown you the camera and then made you pay ... in spades. all rather odd indeed, don't beat yourself up about it. and as another commenter said, it may sort itself out yet.

Hopefully problems with Sally will resolve. The beginnings of relationships are always hard to navigate. Though I do think you have every right to say you're uncomfortable with being treated like a subject - and it honestly doesn't sound as though she's taken your feelings about that on board - but I dunno nuffink...

I am so sorry to hear about Pablo. I lost my wee cat, Molly over a year ago. She was twelve and had a stroke. I cried more at her little garden funeral than I did for any of my grandparents. Which at first I thought was odd but then it seemed obvious- Molly was in my life 24 hours a day. And not going up the stairs and seeing her little head peek out the banister rails to greet me took a lot of getting used to.

I know it sounds heartless but I echo Oatmeal Girl's advice. Getting a kitten will help you get over what happened to Pablo. I waited a month then got two, mainly to help my son get over Molly, as he was inconsolable.

I'm so, so sorry. My little dog has had major surgery this week, and the fear that she might not make it home from the vet has been appalling. I'm so sorry that Pablo never made it back to you. Be gentle with yourself while you're grieving.

I'm sorry, my childhood cat was run over. It sounds stupid that one of my biggest fears is one of my cats getting run over, but it's just horrible. I can't see a cat near the road without going hot and cold and sticking my fingers in my ears.And i'm sorry about your relationship too, I hope it gets reconciled x

Mind-bogglingly self absorbed middle class students with artistic pretensions. Throw a stick in any London park and you'll hit ten of them. I wonder if NotKeith ever warned you about Sally? Unfortunately, you were just her pet project for a few weeks. Sorry, Stan, really. I can't be your only reader who had figured that one out from pretty much your first mention of her. And she was definitely taking pictures of you - don't even doubt that for a second.

A poignant and beautifully written post. Your choice of words really evokes your pain and nobody, but nobody can take that talent from you. A horrible week indeed and only time will make it more manageable. I'm not pleased with Sally, though.....

I think Sally's being very fucking weird though. Even if she wasn't taking photos (and I'm certainly not convinced!) then she should have the maturity to realise why you might have thought she was and understood why you freaked out.

As I went to bed last night and was drifting off to sleep it occured to me that when I look at my photos on my camera in the dark of the night, I don't turn any lights on. Because the LCD screen of the camera LIGHTS ITSELF.I also don't turn lights on because I respect that someone else is sleeping. I have bad dreams too. And insomnia. But wake someone else up because of it... What is she, 12?

The oldest trick in the book, that, ducking when the finger is pointed at you and pointing it right back. She sounds mean, that one. Mean and spoilt. Couldn't get her own way, eh?

I know it's awful now, but it will get better, and at least you know what happened to him and that he didn't suffer too much.

One of my cats went missing once and even though it was years ago I still wonder what happened to him and if he's still alive and if someone's being cruel to him. I think it's better to know for sure and to know that he's beyond suffering.

You really shouldn't blame yourself - it sounds like you did everything right. Cats are just independent little sods and there's nothing you can do about it. Sometimes they do just go awandering.

As for Sally, well, I'm wary of saying too much in case your next post is a triumphant one about her apologetic return. But she sounds vile.

I'm assuming she knows about your history and that you already have prior experience of being filmed without your consent. If so, then she should have understood your concerns and let you reassure yourself by looking at the damn phone.

The fact that she didn't, and pulled the old 'how can you not trust me?' bullshit, suggests to me that she's either incredibly insensitive and lacking in basic human empathy, or that, yes, she was in fact taking photos of you while you were sleeping. My vote is for both I'm afraid. Sorry Bête.

I'm sorry for the loss of your friend Pablo but I am sure that he had one last grand adventure in many a garden before the end. My condolences, really.

I am also sorry for the loss of your friend Sally, although it is early and things could still work themselves out for you and her. They could already be sorted out as I am writing this, but regardless as to whether or not my comment is a bit late:

What would you have done if she showed you the camera and there were pictures of you, would you have chosen to end it due to the fact that, she took pictures without your permission?

It seems to me that maybe you wouldn't have, since you went after her not knowing if she had or hadn't taken them and asked her to stay.

In any case, you had every right to question her honesty because she was acting suspicious and, well- dishonest. I'm with several of the other readers in saying that it's not fair that she pulled the "you don't trust me card" and if she hadn't been snapping pictures then she just should have showed you the camera. Then if you were wrong and she wasn't snapping flicks of you, well then - you'd have some apologizing to do...lots of appeasing and apologizing, but I don't think it would be anything to end a relationship over.

Hmmm... I'm just wondering; did Sally want to display the pictures she took of you or did she just want to photograph you, and share her expertise and the experience with you? You know, as something you two have done together? If she wasn't going to display them, then what's the big deal? Sally Likes you, Sally Likes Photography, Sally wants photographs of you.... but if she was going to publicly display them- that's a different story all together.

As always, I appreciate your talent for the written word and look forward to more and hope that in the mean time, life deems fit to dole out some bits of sunshine your way.

What can I say that hasn't been said? I feel sick that you lost Pablo! As much as my cats drives me nuts I'll be heartbroken if anything happens to them.As for Sally, well I'm afraid I agree with several others. I think she's lying and pulling the defensive to twist it onto you. If I'm wrong, I'll gladly suck it up. It's crap, I know, and nothing any of say is going to make any difference. Get drunk, cry, talk Keith into the ground and eventually, you will feel better. Take your time :o) xxx

Oh man, I've just caught up on this week's entries. I am so so sorry for your loss, having been a cat owner for a fair wee while I know only too well how much it hurts when you lose one of the little bastards.

I hope you're in a position to get another cat soon. Chin up and best foot forward

'...I enjoy reading Stan Cattermole’s writing as much as I enjoy Mark Twain and Charles Dickens and Kurt Vonnegut. In fact, I have rarely read anything more painfully humorous and delightfully moving.'

In a nutshell..

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